Gingerbread Twist
by Iamriddlemaker
Summary: Ginny always called us gingerbread's. Probably because of our matching hair colour, the fact that we can be both sweet and bitter at the same time, now more so than ever in these troubling times. But we promised; it was a no-brainer. We'd stick together, no matter what. At least, that's what we swore. But darkness has a way of breaking the bond of friends.


Ginger Wood. It sounds like a joke, right? The one's that you find in crackers at Christmas; the one's that make everyone cringe. Or a sample of some new sickly, treacly cake that no one really likes. Maybe even a sample of paint that you only see in the homes of the elderly. Possibly a shade of tacky hair dye, sitting at the back of the shop that no one will ever contemplate buying.

Well, for me, it's none of those. It's my name.

My feet brush against the blades of grass, tickling my bare soles as the tyre swing spirals around and around, the rope twisting against the branch Charlie Weasley tied up for us at least three summers ago, when he was on one of his trips back from Romania. And, before you ask, by us I mean his younger brothers, my two best friends: George and Fred.

Fed pushes the tyre again, rolling his eyes. "When are you going to let _us _have a go, Ginger?"

I swat him with my arm as I fly past again, my red curls spiralling out behind me like a banner. "When pigs fly."

He scowls at me mockingly while George laughs in one of the higher branches, throwing fireworks about so that they pop and whizz around us. "Well, that's not going to happen anytime soon, is it?"

"Nope." I let the ending pop, grinning. "But it would be a good idea for the joke shop you want oh-so badly, right?"

George's head hangs down in front of my face as I swing past him. "That's actually not a bad idea."

He jumps down from the branch and hauls himself onto the tyre, making it jerk around wildly as I squeal, clutching onto the rope tighter so that I don't fall off. He jabs me in the ribs with his elbow, fidgeting around slightly. "Budge up a bit, then."

I sit on top of the tyre and he stands facing me, his feet planted onto the rim of the rubber, my legs swinging either side of his. He winks at me, and I flush slightly, clipping him over the head. That boy has a corrupted imagination.

"Right, that's it." The swings tilts drastically, nearly ending with me and George toppling onto the ground as Fred pulls himself up, shifting around so that he's stood beside George, both of them now having to balance on one leg. We all grin at each other, laughing as we begin to slip off, our grips faltering. George's foot slides off his foothold and he yelps, grabbing onto Fred to stop himself from falling.

Obviously, it doesn't work. George ends up yanking Fred off the swing as well, both of them landing in an awkward heap on the grass, laughing. The swing drifts into a slow, mesmerising beat, like clockwork, until George reaches upwards, seizes my ankle, and pulls me down beside them, ignoring my yelp of protest.

The sun beams down onto us as we catch our breath, trying to shift around different limbs to get into a comfortable position on the ground. Which is kind of impossible, seeing as the gnarled roots of the tree criss-cross beneath the grass, digging into our backs where there isn't a lush green carpet to support us. But we lie there anyway, watching the clouds drift slowly in the pool of blue, stretching for as far as I can see. I shift my head, looking at each of them in turn, smiling.

Everyone thinks that George and Fred are identical, but they're not. They are if you look quickly, sure. But I don't. I'd know which one was which even from a distance.

George is the small voice of reason that is the mischief of Fred and George Weasley. He's the more sensible out of the two; he thinks things through without rushing ahead and doing them anyway. Fred just does what he thinks is best at the time, but looking back, he probably could've done better a different way. That's why they work so well together, as brothers: Fred goes first, bold as brass, while George fixes any mistakes he might leave behind.

George yawns, stretching his arms over his head like a cat. Then he frowns, sitting bolt upright, jostling me and Fred out of our slumber in alarm. We eye him sourly, Fred rubbing his shoulder where George elbowed him.

"Promise me something," He turns his eyes on us in turn, the laughter that's usually there mostly gone, replaced by something else. "That we'll always be together, no matter what."

Fred rolls his eyes, flopping back on the ground. "That's a no brainer, Georgie. Of course we will be!"

I nudge George's shoulder with my own, smiling at him between my hair. "We always will be together. We're gingerbread's."

"Who calls us that?" He laughs, shaking his head in amusement. "Wait, let me guess. Ginny?"

"Obviously," I snort. "Although she hasn't bought that nickname up since she was in first year."

He throws me a puzzled look. "So, why have you?"

"Because we always _will _be together, Weasley." I lean against the trunk of the tree, curling my toes around the grass. "You aren't disbanding us that easily."

He smiles, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes, and suddenly I know what he's thinking of. He isn't talking about our friendship, he's talking about _us. _Me and Fred. He doesn't want to lose us now, not ever. _Especially _not now, when we will need each other most.

The name flashes up like a torch, a warning, red and dark and menacing in the depths of my brain. _Voldermort._

He sighs, running a hand through his hair, looking up at the now red stained sky of sunset. "I hope so."


End file.
